


The Damage You Do

by Sin_Twins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, In A morgue really?, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Set in ASiB, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 11:11:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10695810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sin_Twins/pseuds/Sin_Twins
Summary: Mycroft sighed, pouring himself a second glass of scotch and setting down into his chair. He stared into the flames as he thought of all the ways the night could have gone differently. Perhaps more like the previous year, hearty dinner, vigorous conversation, two empty glasses of scotch settling together by the fire. And later, much later, white hot desire cresting into shared oblivion, and a warm bed resplendent with the aroma of satisfied companionship.It's Christmas and Mycroft wishes for a different celebration





	The Damage You Do

**Author's Note:**

> So this is our first foray into Holmescest. I know. It's the hell ship, but I will gladly go down with it. I hope you all enjoy! A big thanks to [Greyscalemuse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/greyscalemuse/pseuds/greyscalemuse) for all the encouragement and the beta. Hell Buddies for life <3

Another christmas. 

Mycroft knew the possibility of getting Sherlock over to his home for dinner was slim. Even if the brothers had a semblance of caring a whit about the holiday, it would have been a monumental feat. However, since neither of them recognized the over-commercialized celebration of consumerism, it was rather an impossibility. 

Mycroft sighed, pouring himself a second glass of scotch and setting down into his chair. He stared into the flames as he thought of all the ways the night could have gone differently. Perhaps more like the previous year, hearty dinner, vigorous conversation, two empty glasses of scotch settling together by the fire. And later, much later, white hot desire cresting into shared oblivion, and a warm bed resplendent with the aroma of satisfied companionship.

But sadly, this year it was not to be. The Holmes brothers’ celebration was curtailed by Sherlock’s insistence that their dalliance no longer continue. And to be honest, Mycroft had expected no less, not since the night he kidnapped Sherlock’s latest acquisition, John Watson. 

The minute Mycroft stared down the slightly diminutive ex-soldier, he knew he had lost. John was not someone Mycroft could, or would be ever able, to intimidate. He was exactly the man to calm his baby brother, should he be brave enough to try. He could tell that John had not chosen to take that step yet, but knew it was only a matter of time before Sherlock would put an end to what they had enjoyed. His fears were further increased watching the two of them giggle and saunter away from the scene of the Hope case, already looking in complete awe of the other. A hasty phone call a week later confirmed it. Sherlock was done. 

Mycroft sipped his scotch, thinking about his long and sordid history with Sherlock, the sibling rivalry that grew into a quiet camaraderie, and then blossomed into more. They knew each other like no one else could, their brains nearly evenly matched, a higher order than ordinary people. It was this kinship that first allowed the tentative explorations of lust, Mycroft giving into the desire he carried for Sherlock, his beauty and his brain. Though Mycroft allowed it, Sherlock admittedly made the first attempt, aggressively overriding Mycroft’s guilt and protestation at social values, reducing him to nothing more that a quivering pile of want and base desire. From there it easily flourished, the two of them, still combative even with this shared secret between them, using that aggression as fodder to make the other submit. Outside of the bedroom, one would think the brothers rivals. Inside? Inside they fought for dominance as they stroked and fucked, ratcheting themselves to new peaks as only people who truly see the other can. It was sin wrapped in a promise of heaven, and Mycroft was lost. He’d happily spend an eternity in hell for an hour bathed in the promise of Sherlock’s body. But, he had known it was too good to last. Even while he fell deeper under his brother’s spell, he knew he’d never be able to keep someone like Sherlock. But still he hoped, and longed, for an eternity. 

Sighing, Mycroft laid his head on the back of the chair, closed his eyes and pictured riotous curls, pale white skin, and ever-changing eyes that bore a hole into his very soul. He knew he was being maudlin, but could not bring himself to care, memories flooding his brain and betraying the want he still carried within him. 

At that very moment, Mycroft's phone pinged in his suit pocket, and he drew it out, his eyebrows raising at the name on the ID. _Speak of the devil_ , he mused. 

“Oh dear lord. We’re not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we? Have they passed a new law?” He intoned, schooling his voice to betray nothing of his current train of thought. 

“I think you’re going to find Irene Adler tonight.”

Irene? Certainly not what he expected (hoped) to hear. “We already know where she is. As you pointed out, it hardly matters.” The last was delivered with a slight sneer in his tone, but he couldn’t help it, he’d rather be discussing other matters with his dear brother tonight. 

“No, I mean you’re going to find her dead.” Sherlock’s voice went quiet, and Mycroft was taken aback to hear the sadness in the tone. He opened his mouth to reply, questions of how, what, on the tip of his tongue but the line clicked dead. Outside the snow was coming down harder, and Mycroft watched it fall as he contemplated the call.

He knew without a doubt that Sherlock was right, and while he was shamefully pleasantly surprised at the outcome, he could tell Sherlock was not. With a weary sigh, he hoisted himself out of his chair and started making calls. It appears it would be a working Christmas after all. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two hours later found him in Barts morgue, tapping his umbrella impatiently against the linoleum while he waited for Sherlock to arrive. Just as he had said, a body that was similar to Irene had turned up that evening, and was currently in the capable hands of Molly Hooper. All that remained was a positive identification and Mycroft could consider the case closed. In all honestly he’d be glad to have this one off his hands. Irene had proven to be a bit more cunning than he anticipated and he still kicked himself for driving Sherlock into her path. Seeing his brother beaten and drugged, even though the relative distance of a surveillance feed, made his blood boil. He also refused to name the emotion that coursed through him, even briefly, at the sight of Dr. Watson tenderly carrying Sherlock into Baker Street. Before, he had always been the one to care for Sherlock, his binges, his withdrawals, his beatings, but now it appeared there was someone new, and his services were no longer needed. He gripped his umbrella handle tighter and swallowed down the emotion lest he let himself be overcome by it. 

A creak of the outer door and Sherlock swept in, his hair dampened by the wintery mix outside, and his cheeks showing a hint of flush. Mycroft was again forced to recognize just how beautiful he was, and hurried to turn his attention to the topic at hand. _Body, Irene, case_. 

Sherlock breezed by him, pausing for just a fraction of a second outside the door to the morgue, his eyes raking over Mycroft’s form, analyzing, deducting. A lesser man might have blushed under such severe scrutiny, but Mycroft was inured to this treatment, having taught his younger brother the very skills he frequently employed to such success. Sherlock opened the door and Mycroft followed him in, unable to stop himself from his own mental observations. 

The woman on the table bore a resemblance to Irene Adler, though it was admittedly difficult to tell with the facial lacerations, the swelling, and the inevitable pallor of death. Sherlock seemed to brace himself a bit before asking Miss Hooper to draw the sheet down so he could see the rest of her, upon which he pronounced that it was indeed Irene. Mycroft worked to keep his face impassive and detached as he ignored Miss Hooper’s vocalization of the question that was running through his own mind. How was it he recognized her from her body, so definitively? Was he wrong about Sherlock’s interests? If he had started some kind of liaison with Ms. Adler, was his attitude evidence of deeper feelings about the dead woman? Mycroft was ashamed to admit the idea of such left his stomach sour. 

He thanked Miss Hooper for her time, and followed Sherlock out into the hallway, hesitating briefly to gauge his reaction. He seemed pensive and slightly morose, and Mycroft wanted to comfort him. Somehow. He only hoped Sherlock would allow him to do so. 

Pulling the single cigarette from his pocket, he moved close behind Sherlock, handing it to him from over his shoulder. “Just the one.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“Merry Christmas,” Mycroft replied, taking out his lighter to do the honors. 

“Smoking indoors. Isn’t there one of those...one of those law things?”

Hearing Sherlock’s halting speech, Mycroft became instantly more concerned. It was very unlike his brother to stammer in the middle of a sentence, and he could think of only two times he’d heard him make the error. One was in the bedroom when he gave himself over fully to his desires, and the other was when the great emotions he possessed got the better of him. The former, Mycroft admitted wistfully, had not been on display for the past few months, and the latter spelled trouble of a medicinal sort. 

Mycroft tampered his worry as best as he could. “We’re in a morgue. There is only so much damage you can do.”

Mycroft looked over at his brother, watching him pull a drag on his cigarette, ashamed to admit the stirring of something deep within his belly at the sight of Sherlock’s mouth. He tried to reign in the baser impulses by focusing on the case at hand. “How did you know she was dead?”

Sherlock hesitated for the briefest of seconds, “She had an item in her possession, one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up.” He took another drag, blowing the smoke out slowly. 

_Focus, Mycroft._ “Where is this item now?”

He could see Sherlock stiffen, preparing the lie in reply, when the sound of sobbing caught his attention. Mycroft turned as well, watching the family of three comfort one another.

“Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there is something wrong with us?” Sherlock asked, his voice betraying a hint of wistfulness. Mycroft wavered between a twinge of jealousy for Sherlock’s feelings about Irene, and a deep need to comfort his brother. He ached to hold him, to press him close as he’d done through so many heartbreaking moments in their past. But he was sure Sherlock would never allow such weakness. Not now. 

Mycroft pushed down the emotions that he’d deny he even possessed. “All lives end. All hearts are broken.” He gazed at Sherlock, moving just a bit closer to brush his shoulder against Sherlock’s back. “Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.” _He should know after all, look where it had gotten him_. 

Sherlock blew another puff of smoke, then exhaled a jagged sigh, relaxing back to brush his own shoulder against Mycroft’s front and Mycroft itched with the desire to wrap his arms around him and pull him closer. Sherlock suddenly turned, focusing his intense attention on Mycroft. Mycroft could almost see the deductions whirring beneath the surface, and quickly worked to smooth out his face. _Cool. Remote_. 

Perhaps he couldn’t fully hide it, or perhaps Sherlock needed more tonight, but the next thing he knew, Sherlock’s lips were pressing to his own, hot, warm and insistent. Mycroft responded instantly before he realized what he was doing, cradling his brothers head in his hands and slanting his mouth over Sherlock’s to deepen the kiss. Sherlock made a noise deep in his throat and the sound jarred Mycroft from his stupor enough to pull back with a surprised gasp. Sherlock protested, leaning forward a bit to try and capture his mouth again, but Mycroft stopped him, his fingers pressing just slightly into his brother’s jaw. 

“Sherlock, wha -”

Sherlock opened his eyes, fixing Mycroft with a heated stare. “Come now, Brother Mine, we both know this is what you want.” He smirked, reaching up to wrap his palms around Mycroft’s forearms. “Your thoughts were so loud I could hear you begging for it.”

Mycroft swallowed and dropped his hands, relishing the drag of Sherlock’s fingers along his coat. He tried to slow his racing pulse, and stepped back to put some space between them. “I apologize,” he started, looking away. “ And besides, this is hardly the place for such assignations.”

Sherlock huffed a humorous laugh, stepping back into Mycroft’s space and crowding close. “As you said, ‘We’re in a morgue. There is only so much damage you can do.’ I certainly don't think anyone is watching, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock, I don’t think-” He was cut off by a hard press of those delicious lips, quickly there and gone before he could begin to respond. Sherlock pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. 

“I want it too, Myc,” He whispered against his mouth.

Those five words broke through the last shred of resistance he possessed. He closed the distance between them again, sucking Sherlock’s lower lip into his mouth and biting gently. Sherlock groaned, and the sound moved straight to his groin, arousal surging through his blood. “Are you coming home with me, then?” 

Sherlock shook his head, and broke away, his demeanor saddened for a brief moment. “John will be expecting me.” He glanced around, and grabbed Mycroft’s coat as he made his way to the door to their left, opening to reveal a small utility closet, just big enough for two people to engage in mischief. Sherlock pushed him through it then followed, slamming the door and pressing Mycroft against it. In the near darkness, Mycroft reached for him again, brushing his thumbs over those sharp cheekbones before claiming Sherlock’s mouth. 

Sherlock melted into the kiss, his hands moving to bracket Mycroft’s head, bracing himself against the door while he methodically plundered Mycroft’s mouth. Their tongues stroked languorously against one another’s, breath mingling as neither man asserted control, for once the sibling rivalry quieted. Mycroft let his hands roam down Sherlock’s sides and under his coat to grasp his hips and pull him closer, emitting a broken-off moan as he felt his brother’s hardness press against his own. Shuddering, Sherlock rocked his hips forward and buried his face in Mycroft’s neck causing Mycroft press their bodies impossibly closer and turned his head to nibble on Sherlock’s neck. He felt completely out of his element, lost to the feeling of his brothers body rubbing against his own, the warmth of their coats causing an incredible heat that managed to be stifling and sultry all at once. Mycroft had never been one for quick-and-dirty, but as in all things, Sherlock alone could break through all his carefully constructed barriers, smashing his social constructs with the force of a jackhammer. 

Warm fingers brushed Mycroft’s erection as Sherlock worked his button and zipper, reaching into Mycroft’s pants and drawing him out into the open. Mycroft hissed at the rush of cool air on his aching cock, but it quickly turned to a moan as Sherlock took him in hand, stroking slowly from the base to the slit, already wet and weeping. Grasping Sherlock’s head firmly, he slammed their mouths together again as he thrust into the warmth of Sherlock’s hand. He bit down on a gasp as he realized it was not going to be long tonight. 

Just as that thought crossed his mind, Sherlock pulled back and flashed a wicked grin before falling to his knees in front of him. Mycroft held his breath, every cell crying out for what was coming next. A ghost of a breath across his aching cock and then warm, lush heat as Sherlock swallowed him down in one go. He bit his lower lip to keep from crying out, tangling his hands in Sherlock’s hair to hold him steady. Sherlock hummed around his cock, causing delicious vibrations to course through Mycroft’s body pushing him ever closer to the precipice. _God how was he already so close?_

“Lord, what you do to me, Sherlock,” he panted, rolling his head from side to side and feeling the wood scrape his skin, as Sherlock licked his way up the underside of his cock and tongued at the frenulum. He locked eyes with his brother, watching his length slide in between spit-slick lips and thought though he was surely going to hell, he’d laugh every step of the way. 

With one hand, Sherlock reached up to caress his balls, already pressed tight against his body in anticipation. Sherlock hummed again and began sucking him in earnest, long pulls of wet mouth and clever tongue. Mycroft had to close his eyes against the erotic visual of Sherlock on his knees before him, that mouth in action, but couldn’t repress a long jagged groan on a particularly wicked stroke of tongue. 

He could suddenly feel his orgasm building hard and tight in his belly and crashing through his system. He gripped Sherlock’s hair harder, unable to stop the tiny thrust of his hips, lost in a wave of sensation. 

“Sher - I’m..” He whispered, trying to give a gentlemanly warning. 

Sherlock pressed in closer, pulling Mycroft’s cock all the way to the back of his throat and swallowing around him. The pressure and heat was too much for him and he shudderingly spent himself into Sherlock’s willing mouth. Sherlock swallowed and continued to lick his softening cock until he winced from over sensitivity, giving a tug on Sherlock’s hair to get him to stop. Wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, Sherlock stood, flushed and panting. _Lord but he was beautiful_ , Mycroft thought, ebony curls a wreck from his fingers, his lips red and swollen from use, and an impressive erection straining against the placket of his trousers. Mycroft reached out and grasped Sherlock by the shoulders and pulled him in, reclaiming his mouth in a searing kiss and swallowing Sherlock’s desperate moans. 

“What do you need, Sherlock?” Mycroft whispered against his lips.

“Oh god. Myc - just touch me, please.” 

Mycroft snaked his hands between their bodies and unfastened Sherlock’s trousers pushing one inside and wrapping his fingers along Sherlock’s length. Sherlock whimpered and buried his head in Mycroft’s neck. “Oh yes, like that,” he exhaled, his breath hot and fast against Mycroft’s skin. 

Sherlock rutted against Mycroft’s hand, his hips stuttering in their rhythm and Mycroft could tell he was close to completion. His breaths turned to quiet sobs, a repeated chorus of “yes” “please”, and his name falling from those abused lips. 

Mycroft felt Sherlock swell in his palm and twisted his wrist to hit that spot underneath the head that never failed to push Sherlock over the edge. With a final shallow thrust, Sherlock stiffened and threw his head back in a wordless scream as his orgasm spilled between their bodies, Mycroft doing his best to capture it in his palm, no need to alert everyone of their rushed liaison. Sherlock sighed and collapsed against Mycroft, boneless and spent as both brothers fought to regain their breathing.

The two stayed like that, wrapped in sated embrace for several minutes before Sherlock finally straightened, and pressed one tender kiss to Mycroft’s lips before pulling away to adjust his clothing. Mycroft pulled out his handkerchief and removed the lingering traces of his brother’s come from his hand before tucking the soiled garment into his pocket, then fixed his own attire. 

He tidied himself and glanced up to find Sherlock staring at him, with a look he could not easily discern. He looked flushed and well-fucked, but also unsure. Mycroft reached for him, wanting to gather him in his arms, but Sherlock pulled away. _So that was how it is_. 

Rebuilding his cold facade, and shuttering the blossoming pain in his chest, Mycroft nodded, and pushed himself off the door. “Well, brother mine. That was unexpected. Can I entice you to accompany me for a drink?” 

Sherlock slowly shook his head. “John will be expecting me,” he said quietly. 

“Can I provide you a ride home?”

Another shake of his head. Sherlock leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to Mycroft’s cheek. “Merry Christmas, brother dear.” he murmured, before throwing open the door and sweeping through, his coat billowing out behind him. 

Mycroft watched him exit the building before grabbing his umbrella and following. “And a happy new year, Sherlock.” He whispered. 

 


End file.
